


and everything is fine

by burn_my_dread_babe



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Spoilers for Vanilla P5, Suicide, akechi is gay and commits crimes, akechi is really good at denial, gay pining, i know hanahaki disease has rules but we are bending the rules so bear with me okay, i regret to inform you that there is flower language, manic energy sushi date, shido is the worst and i love it, some mild self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burn_my_dread_babe/pseuds/burn_my_dread_babe
Summary: The next morning, Akechi wakes up with something in his throat. He thinks nothing of it, staggers to the bathroom like always and pauses in front of the sink. And then he coughs. And then he sees—No.A single flower petal, stark red against the porcelain of his bathroom sink.This is not happening.Akechi closes his eyes and counts to eight, determined that when he opens them the petal will be gone. A figment of his imagination, the product of excessive stress and nothing more.Paper thin though it is, the little red teardrop in his sink refuses to budge.That’s fine.It still isn’t happening.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 157





	and everything is fine

Akira Kurusu is typically not especially expressive. Akechi has taken careful note of this, in the time they’ve spent together. He tends to limit his reactions, as though he’s trying not to give anything away. It’s a coping mechanism, Akechi figures. It seems quite unfair to him—he’s spent all this time schooling his features into perfect compliance, and here Kurusu coasts easily on blank indifference. Typical.

As of late though, this theory has started to break down. Case in point, right now Kurusu is sitting across from him in the booth, losing a game of chess very badly, and _humming_ to himself.

“You’re awfully chipper,” Akechi says. It doesn’t bother him. He knows exactly the reason and he’s going to be there to watch it crumble.

Kurusu shrugs. “Things are going well.” He smiles again. “Is that really so awful, Akechi-kun?”

Akechi returns the expression. It does matter to him that Kurusu is happy. Happy people are very often complacent and very rarely suspicious.

Akechi laughs quietly. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. “And how are your friends?”

“I think they’re all doing well, too.” He pauses. “We’re going to Destinyland this week.”

“I’m sure it will be lovely.”

“I think they’ll have fireworks.”

“They very often do.”

They sit in silence a moment. Somewhere across the café Sakura turns on the news, and the announcer’s voice crackles into focus, bright and synthetic. 

The two of them stiffen reflexively. It’s laughable, really, how fragile their relationship is. They’ve been playing at casual denial for months now.

There’s almost an electricity, to the way they stand, just opposite each other, always on the edge of the truth. Joker has a taste for danger, Akechi knows. He wishes the same were not true for himself.

For now, there’s something like trust holding them together. Akechi isn’t sure what to call it.

<< Good evening Tokyo! I’m here with the hottest new idol—Ichika Takanami, here to answer all your questions about—>>

Nothing important, then. That’s fine. It’s probably for the best he doesn’t get the news about Okumura in his present company.

Still, his anxiety is mounting. Okumura’s death should be a breaking story for every major outlet in Tokyo, if not the entire nation. It’s next to impossible that it would go unreported, so the only reasonable conclusion is that he’s still living, wherever he may be.

Akechi did everything right. He does not make mistakes. He put a bullet in Okumura’s shadow and watched him disappear. Clean and easy, the same as all the rest. Only one variable out of place.

If you take someone’s distorted desires, and then destroy the rest of them, what happens exactly?

Akechi has faith in himself and his methods. But not everyone is so easily convinced.

Before he or Kurusu can speak again, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

[incoming call: PRIVATE NUMBER]

“Oh, it’s work.”

“They call you this late?”

Akechi smiles and collects his things. “Crime never sleeps, Kurusu-kun.”

The bell chimes when he exits, and Akechi ducks into an alleyway. He braces himself before answering the phone, like he’s about to jump into a cold pool.

“What can I do for you, Shido-san?”

“My office, fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Actually, make that ten. I am not in the mood to wait.” _Are you ever?_

Shido hangs up without another word.

##

Thirteen minutes later, Akechi stitches himself together in the elevator. His face is one shade redder than usual, partly from the cold and partly because he’s had to run halfway across Tokyo to make it here. Hopefully Shido finds it more amusing than disappointing.

He enters the office, jaw tense, hands steady.

Shido never puts his head down and works like a drone. He sits recumbent, feet on the desk like a stock photo, Tokyo behind him an impressionist painting. He glances at those beneath him, and treats his attention like a gift in and of itself.

So of course, as soon as Akechi walks through the door, suddenly his presence is second to paperwork. _So petty. What a child._

He bows anyways. “You called, sir.”

“You’d better have something for me.” Shido still hasn’t looked up at him.

“I’m afraid there’s been no word. As far as the news is concerned, his press conference is still scheduled, and the calling card hasn’t been discovered yet.”

“So you have nothing. Don’t tell me what the news says, Akechi. I own the news.” He meets Akechi’s gaze and it is clear that this is intended as a punishment. “You timed the hit on Kobayakawa down to the minute.” _To the second._ “It’s been three days. Tell me why Okumura isn’t dead.”

“I can’t say with certainty, sir.”

Shido stands and slams the table, once. Akechi does not wince. “Then don’t waste my time.” They are both very still. If Akechi were not wearing gloves, his nails would be digging into his palms.

“But if you’ll allow me to speculate,” Akechi adds quickly, keeping his tone light and even, “There is an outstanding variable in this case. Okumura’s treasure was stolen before I took out his shadow.” He eyes Shido, who is now standing with crossed arms, but otherwise does not react. “The changes of heart tend to occur with some delay, and culminate in the victim’s confession. It’s probable that in this case, both effects will occur simultaneously—that is, the act of confessing his crimes will trigger Okumura’s mental shutdown.”

Shido takes a moment to absorb this, which is a good sign. He never expresses much curiosity about the innerworkings of the metaverse, which makes sense to Akechi. It would affect his image, to lavish any undue attention on what was essentially another tool for his own means. The negative here is that it means he doesn’t pay much attention to Akechi either. Not that it matters—Akechi has wedged himself into the operation tightly enough that he knows he is _valued,_ however implicitly.

But the benefit to Shido’s aloof attitude is that, generally speaking, he isn’t likely to question Akechi on these matters. He understands that the metaverse is a power and Akechi can manipulate it and that he himself directs it. The details are largely beneath him.

The result of all this is something like trust—perhaps harsher.

“What would that mean,” Shido asks without inflection, “practically speaking.”

“If I’m correct, Okumura should die at that press conference.”

“ _If_ you’re correct,” Shido echoes. He contemplates again. “Fine. We’ll let this play out. Okumura’s too high up to take him out the old-fashioned way. If he dies on live television it will be one hell of a scandal. Easy to spin.”

“Will that be all then?”

Much to Akechi’s relief, Shido sits back down. “Just one more thing.” He looks at Akechi with eyes like a predator. “If Okumura says even _one_ _word_ that implicates me, it will be on your head. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get out of my office.”

Masayoshi Shido has many, many flaws. But he does make himself exceptionally clear.

##

Akechi doesn’t get a lot of best-case scenarios. He tends to prepare for the worst and draw the line there. Optimism is reserved for idle fantasy, nothing more. He watches the press conference alone in his apartment, hunched over his laptop, fidgeting relentlessly.

He has two major contingency plans.

If Okumura says his name—which is unlikely, but possible—he will retrieve his cache of falsified documents, take his bike and then an express train to the airport, and flee the country to live out the rest of his life under a new identity.

If Okumura says Shido’s name, the plan is identical, but he’ll bring extra bullets.

All of this is soon forgotten because instead he says, “I am solely responsible,” and it’s the most beautiful thing Akechi has heard in a long time.

##

The call from Shido, when he gets it, is no different from the last. That’s fine. At this stage, he doesn’t need to be told that things are going according to plan.

Shido’s reclining when he gets there, glass of scotch in hand, bottle on his desk.

He speaks as soon as Akechi walks in, no formalities. “Okumura was declared dead on arrival at Tokyo Metropolitan Hospital. Cause of death ruled a heart attack. They already found the calling card at his estate.”

“No suspicion will be cast our way, then?” Akechi asks, though the answer is already clear.

Shido shakes his head. “Everything went just fine. It’s a hell of a scandal. I couldn’t have done it better myself.” _You couldn’t have done it at all._ “Excellent work.”

Akechi bows. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad to hear that everything is running smoothly.” Something twists in his chest. It shouldn’t feel so nice, to hear Shido speak to him this way.

“Have a drink. You’ve earned it.” Shido sits forward and looks right at him.

Akechi makes a show of looking taken aback. “Sir, I couldn’t possibly. I’m underage after all.”

Shido laughs and pours him one anyways. Maybe a year ago Akechi could get away with an act like that, let Shido make some joke at the expense of his naïveté. _That’s a funny place to draw the line, kid, committing murder but stopping short of underage drinking?_ There really is no line anymore.

They sit in silence for a little while. They drink to the future of Japan. It’s almost comfortable, sitting there on top of the world. Akechi understands that this is probably how Shido feels every single day, because he’ll declare his own victory at the drop of a hat. Any failing is of course, the fault of his subordinates, whom Shido punishes, and then that punishment is yet another victory for Shido.

Is that what they are then, drinking buddies? It occurs to Akechi that this is the closest they’re ever going to get—digging this grave together.

_No,_ he reminds himself, _I will climb one step higher, when I cut him down._

He looks out at the Tokyo skyline. The weather is turning sour and the city lights blare through the rain.

There may as well be fireworks.

On his way out, Shido tosses him a flash drive. “There’s the full video. Uncut. Your souvenir.” Shido really does seem to think that he’s a sadist. That’s fine. It’s easier for both of them to swallow than the truth.

Akechi catches the file easily and holds it between two gloved fingers. “And wherever did I get this, Shido-san?”

Shido chuckles. “Don’t be so paranoid. The police station will have it by tomorrow.”

Akechi bows low. “Ah, thank you Shido-san. I’m sure this will be integral to my investigation.” He leaves quickly. Before things have a chance to get any worse.

Back at his apartment, Akechi watches the video twice. The first time it’s out of icy, morbid curiosity. He’s never seen a mental shutdown from the outside, after all. Okumura suffers. Bile rises in his own throat, but that’s mere physiology. Nothing of consequence.

The second time, he imagines that it’s Shido’s face instead.

That night, Akechi bashes the drive into a thousand tiny pieces and then sleeps very soundly.

##

It is perhaps a touch dramatic to say that Akechi is visiting Leblanc with malicious intent, but it’s not far from the truth. He sits at the counter and makes idle small talk, while Kurusu sits in relative silence looking absolutely _dejected._ It’s beautiful.

“Kurusu-kun,” he says, furrowing his brow, “you seem very distant. Did something happen?”

“Oh,” Akechi expects him to brush it off, but instead he continues. “A friend of mine—her father passed away.”

“You’re friends with Haru Okumura,” Akechi supplies softly. He’s cutting it very close with this. But it won’t be long now before he shows his hand anyways.

Kurusu nods.

“I offer my condolences.” He pauses for a moment. He really doesn’t have to ask. Then again, it’s not like he’s here to make things easier for Kurusu. “But I have to ask,” he continues, “do you still support the phantom thieves, even now that they’ve done this?”

Kurusu’s eyes widen at that, and he quickly looks away. “I don’t know,” he says, speaking quietly even by his standards.

_Does he really think this is his fault somehow?_ That’s kind of pathetic. And Akechi really doesn’t find it as satisfying as he thought he would. _You’re supposed to fight back. Isn’t that what you do?_ The past few days, Akechi has seen Okumura’s bleeding face every time he closes his eyes. It’s only now that he wonders whether Akira sees the same thing.

For just a moment, Akechi is really sick of all of this. “Let’s go somewhere,” he hears himself saying.

“What?”

“You heard me. The jazz club is open, it’s a Saturday night—Let’s take a break.”

“Oh—I don’t know if I’m in the mood. With everything that’s happened—"

He really should back off. But instead he stands up and gets his jacket because there is no way in hell he’s getting rejected right now. “You’re right. Everything’s terrible, the world is in shambles. People are dying left and right. Let’s get sushi.”

Every alarm bell is going off in Akechi’s head to tell him that this is an awful idea. But so what? Shido put him in a good mood, as sickening as that sentiment is. He might as well take advantage of it.

There’s light coming back to Kurusu’s eyes. He almost laughs—Akechi can tell. He sees it in the quirk of his eyebrow, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Sushi?”

“My treat. Hagakure.”

“There’s no way you’re getting a table there without a reservation.”

“Oh?” Akechi smiles. “That sounds like a challenge.”

##

In reality, it’s not much of a challenge, which, as far as Akechi’s concerned, is largely the point. Hagakure is different from their usual places. They spend most of their time in hidden corners of Tokyo. Places without any prying eyes, where it’s just the two of them in their bizarre little standoff. But tonight, Akechi isn’t here to relax, nor is he here to dissect Akira for information.

He’s here, at this particular restaurant, in the dead center of Roppongi, on the busiest night of the week, purely in the interest of spectacle. That is—he’s in the mood to show off.

Hagakure sits near the top of a high rise. It is sleek, bright, and wildly popular. Although, it’s expensive and exclusive enough that Akechi isn’t likely to run into too many of his fans. No, he’s far more likely to encounter members of his _other_ social circle, and they live and die by the rule of discretion.

When they arrive, the line is so long that they can barely see the entrance. Akechi doesn’t even take notice. He leads Akira right through the crowd, all finely dressed and chattering incessantly. Akira sticks out terribly, frizzy hair, jeans and all. Akechi relishes in it.

He approaches the hostess and gives her his best TV smile, head tilted just so. “I’d like a table for two please. Under the name Goro Akechi.”

She looks right through him. “I’m sorry, we’re currently—” She pauses and glances at her clipboard. “Oh, never mind. Follow me, right this way.”

There is a reason that Akechi chose this particular restaurant. They keep a list. And Shido writes the list, therefore his name is on it.

They walk to their table, and Akechi turns around once to beam at Akira, who is treating the situation with his usual brand of stoicism. _Look at me,_ he wants to say. _Look at me, I’m winning._

“It’s a nice place,” Akira says plainly, once they sit down. He doesn’t seem impressed, and suddenly Akechi finds this response supremely disappointing.

“Well,” he says, “order anything you like.” Shido’s already wired him his bonus. They could order one of everything on the menu and it wouldn’t even make a dent.

They order and as the waitress turns to leave Akechi stops her. “By the way,” he says. “It’s my friend’s birthday.”

She winks. “Oh, I’ll be sure to make a note of that,” she says before leaving them alone.

Akira gives him a look.

“The desserts here are excellent,” Akechi says innocently.

This seems to get Kurusu’s attention. “Akechi-kun,” he chides, “I’m surprised at you. Lying to a waiter for free cake?”

“It’s hardly criminal. If you’d like, you’re welcome to pay for it.”

“Oh no,” he shakes his head emphatically. “I never said it was a problem. I’m honored,” he says, “that the _detective prince_ would be so rebellious on my behalf.”

“We’re in high society now, Kurusu. You’d better get used to it.” He drops his voice near a whisper. “Corruption is everywhere.”

Kurusu leans forward conspiratorially. “Oh?”

“You see that woman over there?” He gestures subtly with his head. “She runs one of the worst tabloids in Tokyo. She profits off of baseless lies and nothing more.”

“You say that like it’s personal.” Kurusu turns to look at her, very slowly and openly.

“Don’t be so obvious,” Akechi hisses, prompting Kurusu to whip back around in a maneuver which is exactly twice as suspicious. Akechi sighs. “But you’re not wrong about it being personal. I may have been one of her targets on occasion.”

Kurusu nods slowly. “Do you want me to go spill a drink on her?” He asks, voice low.

“The thought is tempting, but I’m afraid if you cause a scene we’ll get kicked out before cake.”

“So we’ll have cake first.”

Akechi laughs, despite himself. “Your commitment to revenge is inspiring, Kurusu-kun.”

The night wears on, and the two of them don’t stop talking for a minute, even over dinner. Akechi smiles every time he’s supposed to, but he finds that it’s much easier than usual. Actually, everything is easier than usual, because there is no challenge here. He doesn’t bother with any philosophy, or over analysis, or tissue paper flattery. It’s all just background chatter and creamsicle orange light and the two of them talking about nothing.

“No, no,” Kurusu begins, suppressing a smile, “say that again.”

“What,” Akechi says, amusement already seeping into his voice, “preposterous?”

Kurusu laughs, and it’s deep, even guttural. He sounds ridiculous. Akechi desperately wants to hear it again.

“What is so funny about that?”

“I don’t know,” Akira says, in between gasps for air, “It’s just so, so –”

“Preposterous?” Akechi supplies.

And then Akira is laughing so hard he’s _reeling_ and Akechi is worried his head might hit the table. Akechi is _worried,_ but he can’t even think about it because Akira’s laughter is so contagious it’s like a parasite in his lungs. And they’re both so loud he’s sure people are staring and he’s sure that his face is bright red but he can’t even begin to care, and the waitress—

Oh, the waitress?

He taps Akira frantically on the wrist. “Kurusu-kun,” he says, trying to find his composure, “Kurusu-kun, cut it out, there’s cake.”

“What?” he says, and then, “Oh, oh wow.” He leans back so the waitress can place it in front of him.

The cake is a monstrosity, complete with macarons, several types of fresh fruit, profiterole swans, and of course, several candles. It is relentlessly bright, and Kurusu blinks slowly several times in an attempt to preserve his vision.

The waitress winks again, and chimes, “Have a happy birthday!”

And then the three of them are alone, just Akechi, Kurusu, and this atrociously hideous cake.

“Well, happy birthday, Kurusu-kun. Would you like me to sing for you?”

Kurusu suddenly looks very serious. “Yes.” He leans in. “Goro Akechi, ace detective, I would like nothing more than for you to sing happy birthday to me in the middle of this sushi restaurant.”

“Is that so?”

“I bet if we ask, they’ll give you a microphone.”

“It’s not a karaoke bar—”

Kurusu raises a hand, “Waiter!”

Just as quickly, Akechi grabs his hand and pins it to the table. “Kurusu, you are _insane._ ”

“No singing, then?”

Akechi smiles. “No,” he says lightly.

“But you promised.” Kurusu pouts.

“I did no such thing.” He eases back. “Tell me, when exactly did you make it your life’s mission to embarrass me in public?”

“About the minute I realized you were willing to be seen with me in public.”

Akechi laughs again. “Shut up and eat your cake.”

They take a cab back to Yongen, mostly because Akechi can afford it and partly because he doesn’t want to go home. Nothing much happens on the ride, although Akechi does mark a mental scoreboard every time he makes Akira laugh. It goes by quickly.

Kurusu stumbles on his way out and leans on Akechi for balance. It’s a cute act. Joker is never clumsy.

“Would you quit acting drunk? We went out for sushi, not bar hopping in Shinjuku.”

“There’s an idea.”

“Oh yes, tell the detective about your underage drinking, very clever.”

“Hey, you _stole_ that cake. You can’t hide from me, detective. I know you’re corrupt to the core.” Kurusu jabs him lightly on the shoulder.

It’s a harmless statement, but realization washes over Akechi like ice water, cooling his flushed cheeks.

_You killed eight people for a seat at that restaurant._

“Akechi-kun?”

Of course, that wasn’t all he did it for—though it wasn’t all he did, either. _How many more?_

He forces himself to smile again. _As many as it takes._

“You should go home, Kurusu. It’s late.” His voice is flat.

If Kurusu is trying to hide the disappointment in his face, he’s doing a terrible job of it. “Right,” he says, taking a step backwards. “Thank you, for tonight.” His eyes meet Akechi’s, almost solemn now. “I had fun.”

“I did too,” Akechi says. And for the first time in a while, that’s not a lie at all.

##

The next morning, Akechi wakes up with something in his throat. He thinks nothing of it, staggers to the bathroom like always and pauses in front of the sink. And then he coughs. And then he sees—

No.

A single flower petal, stark red against the porcelain of his bathroom sink.

This is not happening.

Akechi closes his eyes and counts to eight, determined that when he opens them the petal will be gone. A figment of his imagination, the product of excessive stress and nothing more.

Paper thin though it is, the little red teardrop in his sink refuses to budge.

That’s fine.

It still isn’t happening.

And even if it is—which Akechi does consider, as a pure hypothetical, it doesn’t matter. Akechi would never have had the luxury of a long and fulfilling life, one way or another. The best he can do is push everything to the side and focus on achieving his goal. As dying acts go, revenge should do nicely.

He could spend a hundred hours detailing everything he did wrong, cursing himself for getting attached, bludgeoning his stupid fucking feelings into the dirt until everything left is simple and whole.

But he doesn’t have the time. So it’s back to business as usual.

He wakes up early, keeping the mornings to himself. He gets out of bed and looks in the mirror without blinking, painting concealer over all the dark spots. On the trains he covers himself in white marble and does not stumble. His hands never touch the walls. He is aggressively gracious. The lights at the tv station bleed into his skin. The audience laughs and it burns him and keeps him warm. When he reports to Shido, his jaw is tense and his voice is even.

He goes home to his apartment and lies on the floor and idly traces the logistics of his next murder in the air above him. He looks in the mirror and smiles. He scrawls witty comments in the margins of his hit lists before he burns them. He smiles again—this time, less teeth.

He thinks about Akira.

_Are things different now?_

He isn’t certain. The minute that their plan was formulated, once Shido made it clear that Akechi would be the one to kill the leader of the phantom thieves, something seemed to click into place. All things considered, it seemed like the natural conclusion to their relationship. They play the game, Akechi wins. Gets everything he wants and dies trying. It made everything between them seem so trivial—made Akechi feel more powerful. Both of them were living on borrowed time and only he knew it. But now the universe has decided to tell him, what? That this means something?

Despite everything, part of him _wants_ to do it—to tear Akira into pieces and watch them scatter. And he knows exactly which part because it has a name and claws and a voice that keeps him up at night.

About a week goes by, and the petals are coming in clusters now. He suppresses his coughs, keeps the strain out of his voice as best he can. He worries them in between his fingers until the pigment stains his skin red. They pile up in his apartment, turning to dust in the corners where he can’t be bothered to brush it away.

He doesn’t bother going to a doctor. He knows it’s incurable. _Unless—_ He knows he can’t, but it’s hard not to entertain the idea. It’s a low whisper, an impulse that he feels in quiet moments. When he’s alone in the early evening, or when he wakes up and lingers in front of the mirror. _Confess, confess, confess—_

He cannot and he will not. Goro Akechi has done far too much to confess. Too many sins to fit inside his ribcage. If even one passes his lips, what will keep them all from clawing their way out? Every disaster, every soft click of the trigger and screech of the gun, all of them will shred through his insides and escape to wreak havoc on the world.

So he tucks away his affection and leaves it to rot with all the rest.

##

Monday morning brings with it an awful dose of reality, as Monday mornings often do. It’s a standard interview. Candy colored lights, short script.

“And now, for something a little more serious, we’re here with high school detective Goro Akechi!”

“Thank you for having me. Although I hope I’m not too serious—I would hate to bring down the mood!” The crowd laughs at this, which bodes very well considering it isn’t even a joke.

“So considerate! Well, no worries Akechi-kun, we’d all like to know your thoughts, no matter what they are.” The interviewer beams at him.

“Oh, you flatter me. Still, I’d be very happy to give you my insight.” Akechi does his best to tamp down on the _itch_ that is now creeping up his throat. If he starts coughing up flower petals on live television, it could very well end his career, and at best it will lead to a mountain of unwanted gossip.

“Well then, the case on everyone’s mind is the _tragic_ death of Kunikazu Okumura, CEO of Okumura foods. As a member of the team investigating this incident, would you care to make a statement on the matter?”

“For obvious reasons, I can’t discuss the specifics of the case, but my heart goes out to the family of the victim. This act—this _murder_ is truly sickening.” He squares his shoulders a little and addresses the audience. “I simply will not rest until the killer is brought to justice!” There’s a pressure building in his chest with no sign of stopping.

_Shit. Are my eyes watering?_

“Akechi-kun, your passion is truly remarkable! It’s as though you’ve been brought to tears by your commitment to justice!”

This proves to be an excellent save on the part of the interviewer, because there is suddenly a lot of commotion from the teenage girls in the room.

Akechi does his best to appear bashful. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to let my emotions get the better of me.” _I should really learn how to blush on command._

“It’s no trouble at all! It’s very inspiring! But Akechi-kun, do you believe the phantom thieves are responsible for this? You have been critical of them since the very beginning, after all.”

“It’s certainly a distinct possibility—but that doesn’t mean it’s an open and shut case. It’s very important that we continue to consider all possible scenarios. Especially considering that murder doesn’t align with the phantom thieves’ typical _modus operandi_.” The lights are starting to make him dizzy.

“That’s a very nuanced perspective. It’s interesting that you would choose to show any support for the phantom thieves, now that their public approval is so low.”

The pain in his chest is really unbearable now. “Let me be clear. My stance on the phantom thieves has not changed. Even if, hypothetically speaking, they are not responsible for Okumura’s death, I still believe that they should be tried in a court of law.” He clears his throat. Akechi’s lucky enough—no, disciplined enough that it doesn’t spiral into a coughing fit, but that does nothing to stop the petals from coating the inside of his mouth, sticking to his tongue.

“You’re so reliable, Akechi-kun!”

He swallows them and smiles.

##

It’s not by force of habit that he ends up at Leblanc that night. Really. It’s a deliberate and calculated decision, never mind that most of those calculations are done when he’s already halfway to Yongen. In any case, he can always use more intel, and a cup of coffee, and who knows? Maybe the sight of Kurusu’s stupid smug face will be enough to bring him to his senses and get him out of this whole mess.

The café is blissfully empty when he gets there. Even Sakura leaves, almost the second Akechi sits down. He doesn’t read into it.

“Are you closing?” He asks Kurusu, who is still behind the counter. “I could leave,” he says, although he does not move from his seat.

Kurusu shakes his head. “You can stay,” he says softly. “It’s no trouble.”

Akechi smiles far too easily at that. He moves to take out his case files, more for something to look at than to get any real work done. Just as he does, the light over his head sputters and goes dark.

“Oh,” Akechi says, glancing upwards, “That must be a bad sign.”

Akira nods soberly. “Definitely. You’re cursed. If you want, I can read your fortune, but I think it would only confirm what we already know.”

“Are you a fortune teller now? I take it the drag bar didn’t work out for you?”

Akira shakes his head. “You can never have too many part-time jobs.” He sighs. “Speaking of, I should change this lightbulb before Sojiro gets it in his head that I broke it on purpose.” He sets about digging through a cabinet, presumably in search of a spare.

It’s only once Akira turns away that Akechi begins to cough, so it would seem he’s had good luck after all.

“Are you sick, Akechi-kun?” Kurusu asks without looking up.

“Just a sore throat.” The inside of his mouth is beginning to blister.

“Hmm.” He reaches up over the counter. “No coffee for you tonight then. I’ll make you some tea with honey.”

“How considerate of you.” He can taste blood.

The light flickers back on and Kurusu clears the dust from his hands.

“I saw you on TV today,” Akira begins, as he puts the kettle on.

“Oh?” Akechi prompts him to continue, because really this could go in any number of directions.

Akira takes his time. He turns around and looks him dead in the eyes, leaning in a little closer than he needs to. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Yes,” Akechi answers without hesitation.

“Then—you don’t think the phantom thieves killed Okumura.”

“I really can’t discuss specifics. I will say this. I don’t believe the phantom thieves are in the right. Certainly not in the eyes of the law. But I don’t believe that they are murderers.”

Akira nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. He drops his gaze but he doesn’t move. They stay like that, just across from each other, until the kettle whistles.

Akechi doesn’t stay long—he has sense enough for that at least. He drinks his tea with honey and lets it burn his throat. It’s sweet. It keeps him warm.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Kurusu-kun.” He sets his empty mug gingerly on the counter.

“Yeah,” Akira says, taking off his apron. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Tomorrow?”

“For the school festival.” He shrugs. “Makoto said she invited you.”

“Oh, of course,” Akechi smiles. “I do hope I see you there.”

##

The next day Akechi arrives at Shujin academy armed with as many cough drops as he can carry. To say that things go well really is an understatement. The phantom thieves accept all of his terms readily, and it is incredibly satisfying to have the upper hand for a change.

He watches Akira very closely, now that more of their cards are being shown. It’s exhilarating, fighting alongside him in the metaverse, after so many months of observation. It does occur to Akechi that this observation has been contributing to his downfall in a very tangible way.

_Is it his fault for doing all those backflips, or is it my fault for watching him?_

It doesn’t matter. He’s hardly in peak condition—the pain in his chest is a near constant now, and he takes cough drops until all he can taste is cherry menthol and stomach acid. That doesn’t make much difference either, since he’s handicapping himself anyways.

As the days turn into weeks, somewhere along the way Akechi bites the bullet and does his research.

He learns, mostly, that he will probably be dead by December. Which is not entirely helpful. He learns that the flower petals he’s been finding in his windpipe are anemone, which probably means something very poetic and spiritual to someone who cares. He looks at a whole host of very awful looking diagrams and then decides he’d rather wait all this out and never think about the inside of his body ever again.

He spends less and less time with Akira. They’re together in the metaverse, but Kurusu is barely himself there—or maybe it’s the other way around. In either case it brings Akechi back to all the long hours he spent as a passive observer, watching and waiting and scheming like a cartoon villain.

The absence does nothing for his physical condition, but it does ease his conscience somewhat. _I am going to kill Akira Kurusu_ is a much easier mantra for Akechi to recite when he isn’t staring him directly in the face all the time. So it’s for the best. For both of them, probably.

He doesn’t see Akira again until he’s in the underground mall, where Kurusu is—well.

He’s working at a flower shop, of all places.

He hopes to slip by unnoticed, but Kurusu waves him over very conspicuously. Akechi says a silent prayer and obliges him.

“Oh, Kurusu-kun,” he says pausing outside the booth. “Are you enjoying your time as a wage slave?”

“Hey,” he says, adjusting a bouquet. “I happen to like working here. You know, some people would find this incredibly romantic.”

“How quaint.”

“You don’t sound impressed.”

“I’ve received enough misguided gifts from fans to understand just how meaningless these gestures can be, well intentioned though they are.”

“Come on, Akechi-kun, everyone loves flowers.” He tilts his head to one side, as though to convey perfect, innocent curiosity. His form isn’t bad really, although his gaze is a little too intense. “You really don’t have a favorite?” And it’s clearly, brutally obvious that Kurusu wants him to stammer and squirm and deny and--

He refuses to play along. “Red anemone,” he says plainly.

“An interesting choice,” Kurusu responds. If he’s thrown off by Akechi’s apparent sincerity, he doesn’t show it.

“Is it really? As I understand it, they’re quite common.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t interesting. Let’s see.” He holds up a large book, entitled, ‘Rafflesia Employee Handbook: Flower Faux Pas and You.’ Akechi stares blankly while he rifles through the pages. “In hanakotoba,” he announces, “anemone signifies forsaken love. For the ancient Greeks, red anemone was a symbol of blood and death.” He looks up. “Pretty grim, don’t you think?”

Akechi would really like to roll his eyes. “I suppose I simply find them beautiful.”

“I can’t fault you for that.” He closes the book with a flourish. “They’re also highly toxic.”

_Oh._ That point is interesting, at least. Akechi wonders how much more poison he’ll have to swallow before this is all over.

Kurusu has the gall to _wink._

“But if you really don’t like flowers, I’ll just have to get you something else.”

“I’m certain you’re clever enough to improvise,” Akechi says dryly.

“Aww, you think I’m clever?”

“I—” he stammers. _Fuck._ “Aren’t you on the clock?”

“Fine,” Kurusu shrugs. “I see how it is. Leave me to my work, all alone.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Akechi says sweetly, taking a very deliberate step backwards.

“Oh, and detective?” Akechi meets Kurusu’s eyes and he grins. “It’s very cute when you blush like that, you know.”

What was Akechi thinking about again? Oh yes. It’s for the best that they don’t see each other very often anymore.

It’s fair, he supposes, that Akira is killing him too.

##

It’s November 11th.

It’s November 11th, early morning, and it’s there staring at him, from the palm of his hand. A whole red anemone flower. White ring, dark center. Covered in his spit.

Ah, well.

This certainly complicates things.

Akechi runs the numbers a hundred times. Even best case, there is no way in hell that he stays functional until the election.

It will hardly be much of a confrontation if he’s choking to death.

_Shit._ He can’t even have this one fucking thing, can he?

Well that’s just fine. It’s his own fault really, for not realizing sooner that he will never get a single fucking thing that he wants.

Akechi stares into his bathroom mirror for a very long time. Then he breaks the glass with his bare fist.

As he’s digging the pieces out of his hand, he realizes that he’s really very sick of the feeling that he’s stuck, like a train moving along a single track.

He goes to school like usual.

##

That afternoon, he meets with Shido again. He’s been seeing him more and more frequently lately. A year or two ago, he would have done anything to get this much closer. And he did, really. He did everything that Shido asked him to and more.

The office is the same as always, and this time, Shido is presenting him with the illusion of choice. What a gift.

“I’ve narrowed the guards down to two. Here are their records. Let me know which one you want.”

Great. Delightful. Akechi is being granted such an absolute privilege. _Make a choice, Akechi. Choose which name you want to carve inside your eyelids. Choose who lives and who dies, if you’re so righteous._ As if it fucking matters. Here’s a philosophical problem. Two people are tied to a train track. The train is probably going to hit both of them. You get to shoot one of them first. How much more of this are you going to put up with before you jump in front of the train?

“Shido-san,” Akechi begins, because he is an absolute fool, “is the guard really necessary? If the reports are being forged, then I may as well use my own firearm.”

“Right,” Shido says, looking right through him, “and then when the journalists come asking _which_ guard he shot, what then? It’s a hell of a lot cheaper to kill someone than make them disappear. Stop overcomplicating things.”

“But,” Akechi continues, more in an attempt to save face than anything else, “the inclusion of another party is itself a random variable—limiting the number of people in the room will simplify matters greatly.” This is flimsy reasoning at best, he knows. He’s already losing purchase.

“So, what? You can’t handle taking care of two people?”

“No, sir, that’s not what I—”

“Are you a professional, or aren’t you?” He raises his voice, only slightly. But then he hits surface of the desk hard enough that it _rattles_ and Akechi curses himself a thousand times because he backs down immediately.

“I’m sorry, sir. I was being foolish. It won’t happen again.” He takes the files. “I’ll review these and get back to you right away.” And now Akechi is looking at the floor because today is really not his day.

Shido chuckles. “Straighten up kid. Don’t act so nervous, you look pathetic.” Shido says all of this very easily, because he lives in a world where consequences only exist to benefit him.

Akechi laughs too, though he’s certain it sounds even more hollow than usual. “Of course, Shido-san.” His chest is very tight. “I’ll take my leave now, if that’s alright?”

Shido shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “Go home, I don’t care.” His indifference is remarkably calming.

“I’ll report back soon, Shido-san.”

##

That night, Akechi doesn’t go home. He goes to the station, to stay late with Sae-san. It doesn’t do a lot to take his mind off things. It’s still a performance, but at least it’s quieter than most.

So Akechi lets evening turn into night, and then technically early morning. And he pretends to be a detective. And they talk over the case.

It’s a delicate balance, always keeping the truth just out of her reach. He lets her talk, always guides her in circles so that she never quite touches him or Shido. Tonight, she’s run herself ragged, poring over files that she must have read a hundred times.

They’ve been sitting in relative silence for around the past hour, several cups of coffee already drained and discarded. The guards’ profiles are still sitting inside Akechi’s briefcase, untouched.

It always feels different, talking to someone after you’ve been inside their head. Like you’ll never be on equal footing again, no matter how hard you try. Not that he and Sae were ever really equals.

Akechi breaks the silence, even though he probably shouldn’t. He figures that Sae is so exhausted by this point that it won’t really matter what he says to her. She’ll probably assume that he’s exhausted too—which he isn’t exactly. It is sometimes much easier to pretend to be a detective.

“Sae-san? Doesn’t it occur to you—” _That you’re being manipulated,_ he almost says before rephrasing. “I mean, don’t you realize all this stress you’re under is to someone else’s benefit?” Because she must feel the way she’s being pushed, even if she could never ascertain the reason. Effective manipulation takes a long time and a light hand. Sae is practically being held at gunpoint for all the subtlety her supervisors bother to exercise.

She shakes her head and looks at him, eyes bleary. “What? You ask the strangest questions sometimes, Akechi-kun. I’m way too tired for this.”

“Ah, my apologies. I didn’t mean to distract you.” He tries to look busy again.

Sae glares at the files a little while longer. It seems she’s long past actually reading and is now trying to intimidate them into submission.

Her face twists before she speaks again, like she’s only now registered his question. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. My goals are still the same. I just have to see this through.”

Akechi leaves it at that.

But he knows that she doesn’t have to see it through. She just wants to.

She doesn’t have to do anything.

##

The next morning, Akechi blacks out when he gets out of bed. He calls out sick from school, which is easy enough considering that his cough is near constant now, and his voice is beginning to go hoarse.

He heads for the cruise ship.

##

Sunday, he checks his reflection in his phone and finds that his lips have turned blue. Charming.

Akechi can feel, inherently, that today is his last day. Like he can see the whole timeline of his life and the void at the end, coming up to meet him. Well. Akechi doesn’t like to waste time.

##

Shido is staring at him with an expression somewhere on the edge of horrified. “Akechi, what the hell are you doing in my office. I didn’t call you.”

“Shido-san,” he begins. And then he realizes that’s not an unfair question, because he can’t seem to remember how he got here. He begins again. “I have to tell you, Shido-san.” But it’s quite difficult to speak because his lips are going numb.

_Was this room always so cold?_

“Jesus christ, kid, are you drunk?”

“Am I?” The inside of his mouth tastes very sour. But that’s about standard for him now.

There’s something heavy sitting on his chest. He recognizes it.

“Hey,” Shido is saying. “Hey, fucking listen when I’m talking to you.”

Akechi laughs. “That’s no way to talk to your—” It’s awful and hoarse and it’s— “to talk to your—” it’s dry like a wasp’s nest and his whole body is full of acid.

He feels the bottle whistle past his head before he hears it crack on the wall behind him. Something stings. _You could do it,_ he thinks. _You could do it you could do it right now--_

He leans against the wall, slouches almost to the floor. Shido is much closer now and he is still talking. _No,_ Akechi thinks. _I can do better than this._ Part of him still does not want to die shaking.

“Look,” Shido says, grabbing Akechi roughly by the jaw, “Look, I don’t know what this is, and I don’t care. I have a speech to prepare for.” He twists, jerking Akechi’s face upwards. “I am being very considerate. Get. It. Together. I am only going to ask once.”

And with that, Shido leaves him.

It’s early afternoon by the time he leaves for Leblanc. The sky is bright and gray. The air burns in his lungs.

Given Shido’s reaction, he can only imagine how he must look on the train. People stare at him and he does not blink.

Tomorrow there will likely be photos of him everywhere, barely holding himself upright, breathing ragged like any other dying animal. But tomorrow is too theoretical now to be of any real consequence.

He staggers down the streets of Yongen, pausing every few meters to catch his breath, until finally, finally, he makes it to the door and pushes it open.

For a moment, he waits on the precipice. “I’m sorry—” he chokes, “I should go.”

Kurusu is sitting at a booth just inside. “No—come in.” Horrified seems to be the expression of the day. “Akechi, you’re bleeding.”

“Oh,” Akechi says, and takes a seat at the booth before he can black out again.

“Here,” Kurusu gets up. “I’ll get a bandage.”

“You’re here alone?” Akechi calls weakly.

“Yeah,” he calls from the bathroom. “I got your text yesterday.”

_Oh, right. Yesterday._ Kurusu is back. And he’s talking again.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Hey, this is going to sting.”

Akechi doesn’t feel it. But he feels Akira’s fingertips and when he applies the bandage the motion is so tender it makes him sick.

“Akechi-kun, I know you wanted to talk, but I really think I should take you to a doctor. You don’t look well.”

“No,” Akechi says, reflexively, though his voice is so rough now that it really doesn’t help his case. He raises his hands. “Look,” he says, “I’m here because I lost.”

“What?”

“I lost. I’m not playing the game anymore. I surrender. You win. Do you understand?”

“Oh,” Kurusu says. And then, “ _Oh.”_

Akechi nods and lowers his hands, keeping them on top of the table. “Good. Then tell me what you know.”

“I’m not sure that we should—”

“Tell me,” he rasps. He motions for Kurusu to continue even as he devolves into a coughing fit.

“You’re planning to kill me,” he says easily.

Akechi nods encouragingly. “Yes. Good. At least I was. And?” He sweeps a cluster of flowers off the table. Kurusu seems to be watching him with great interest, but he pays it no mind.

“Then you must have been the one behind everything. The mental shutdowns, all of it.”

“Yes.” He pauses to catch his breath. “Wakaba Isshiki, Kunikazu Okumura, more names you wouldn’t recognize.” A list a mile long all coiled in his intestines. 

“You must have had a reason, to do all of that,” Akira says, a little desperately.

So Akechi tells him.

He weaves his whole awful tapestry, the story of his entire life.

Kurusu watches with rapt attention, barely moving, though the furrow in his brow deepens as Akechi talks. He’s patient, when Akechi’s voice gives out, which happens often. He doesn’t say a word when Akechi pauses to catch his breath, or cough, or brush away mounds of flowers. He brings him a glass of water.

Akechi waits for the anger, but it doesn’t come. It’s simmering just underneath the surface, he’s sure. Hell, Akechi can see right through Kurusu’s face, right down to his skull. But he just listens. Dead silent.

It’s very strange, to say all of this aloud. To recount everything, start to finish, all evenly laid out. He realizes that once he starts, he can’t stop himself, even if he wants to. Which he doesn’t really.

He finds that eventually he can speak in full sentences again, and his hands steady, and feeling returns to most of his skin. And his story catches up to the present.

“Oh, Kurusu?” He asks, “What was your plan, by the way?”

“My plan?”

“Unless you were just going to let me shoot you.”

“Oh, that was it, actually.” And he explains.

Akechi nods. “That’s a lot better than I expected. Still a lot of room for error, though.”

“But you—you knew that I knew?”

“I certainly considered the possibility.” Akechi shrugs. “I’ll admit, I expected you to focus your efforts on evading capture but—to let me believe that I had won? I’m impressed.” Though maybe he shouldn’t be.

_Isn’t that all we do—set each other up to fall?_

“But it doesn’t matter now,” he continues. “We’re almost done.”

Akechi stands up and surveys the destruction. For the first time in a while, his head is absolutely clear. There are flowers strewn absolutely everywhere, most of them torn to shreds, all covered in his blood and spit.

His insides all ripped out and scattered on the floor.

Good. All of that done.

There is one piece left to dislodge.

“You vex me, Akira. You’re standing in the way of everything I’ve ever hoped to achieve.

And yet, for reasons I cannot begin to articulate, I have come to care for you very deeply.” His voice is harsh, as though this is as much an accusation as all the rest. “Don’t misunderstand. Had things been different I would have killed you without a second thought. I am telling you this out of necessity, not as favor or a proposition.”

Akechi takes a deep breath and smiles, all teeth, eyes narrow. “As it stands, however, I do hope that you live well, Kurusu-kun.” He turns towards the exit.

“Akechi, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Akechi looks back once, very gently. “I’ll come back soon,” he says, words dipped in honey and then set on fire.

Akira would never forget the way he walked out that door like it was nothing at all.

##

On his way to Shibuya station square, Akechi decides that there is a certain kind of energy to going off script. There’s a feeling he will never be able to replicate, which he only experiences stepping outside of himself and all acceptable boundaries. _You’re not supposed to be here_ , part of him will say. _You shouldn’t be doing this._ And he will not listen.

_It’s very easy to get an audience with the Captain. Akechi can do it whenever he likes. He and the captain have known each other for a very long time._

It’s a sacrifice, he knows, to do things this way.

But it will be worth it and then there will be nothing at all.

_“I’m Shido’s son,” Akechi says coolly._

_“My son, you mean.”_

_“No,” Akechi says, and he means it, because Shido’s nothing like The Captain, not really._

The cut on his face is still bleeding—just the faintest ooze of blood under the bandage and it will keep bleeding until he dies.

It’s not about Akira and it never was.

That boy was a distraction and now he’s a second chance, though certainly not in the way he intended.

_“Don’t you have anything to say to that?” He’s angry now, and his voice is very hoarse._

_The Captain shrugs. “What is it supposed to change?”_

_“Don’t you feel any remorse for what you’ve done?” His anger has a name, and horns instead of eyes, and a voice that keeps him up at night._

_“Do you?”_

It’s cruel, Akechi supposes, to give someone else his story and then abandon it all so readily. To carve out all the rot and viscera and leave it on Akira’s doorstep. That’s fine. Akechi has never opposed cruelty, not really.

_“You’re not attacking me.”_

_The Captain shrugs. “You haven’t outlived your usefulness yet.”_

_“Oh,” he laughs wildly, “Oh, captain my captain, that’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”_

The gun in his breast pocket is burning and so is all of his skin.

“ _You’re here to kill me, then.”_

_“Not yet,” He says, and he realizes he means that too. “I’m not done with you. You owe me.”_

_“And what, pray tell, do I owe you?”_

_“We owe each other everything.”_

_“Is that really what you think, Akechi?”_

The square is sunny and cold.

He knows that Shido will look at him. Even if it’s only for a moment that will be enough. Shido will look at him and some part of him will understand and it will be the last thing he ever does.

_“Yes.”_

There are many faces in the crowd that day. When he pulls out the gun, they scatter. They are not important faces. Shido looks him straight in the eyes and it is beautiful.

Shido hits the ground first, but it doesn’t matter. Once they are both dead, they will finally be the same.

Akechi lies still, on the pavement, in the cool November air, blood still warm.

There are no flowers on his body.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel compelled to inform you that i did not proofread this even one time 
> 
> suicidal akechi rights


End file.
